


Royal Pain in the Ass

by eyemeohmy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Sherlock kinkmeme prompt, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemeohmy/pseuds/eyemeohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a Sherlock kinkmeme prompt: "Mycroft/Jim fucking while Jim is still wearing the crown jewels." All hail the king and "queen".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Royal Pain in the Ass

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse any spelling/grammatical errors. Also, I know nothing regarding details on what exact items make up the crown jewels, but you get it. I love this pairing sfm.

It took quite a great deal of energy to postpone Jim Moriarty's arrest, as well as remove him from the vicinity. The officers didn't take it very well, that some big government hot shot was keeping them from doing their job. Removing this little, snide-mouthed punk from the premises. What burned the most, perhaps, besides the fact they were rendered helpless (albeit temporarily, as they had been quickly reassured), they weren't even allowed to be in the room with the bastard; this included disabling the all ready scrambled surveillance cameras. 

They were unable to stop him from doing anything reckless - you know, besides break into the royal family's crown jewels and then proceed to _wear them_. That was the issue, too - they weren't allowed to touch Moriarty, and it made them sick knowing he was, in a way, given permission to wear those precious artifacts and everything was out of their hands. Would filthy them up, that little... Above all, their pride suffered more than their sense of duty; to think they had let Moriarty wiggle past them so easily without even a scent to follow was a horrendous blow. They had failed.

Though, to be honest, Mycroft Holmes did not care how or what they felt. They could moan and groan and bitch and complain, as long as they followed his instructions to the letter. If they stepped out of line, it was more than their jobs at risk. Mycroft said with such a gentle smile they'd be considered acts of treason against the Ministry of Defence itself. 

When he finally arrived ten minutes after making the phone call and ordering the impatient, trigger happy officers to stand back and keep quiet, news reporters were all ready buzzing about like jackals or flies on a fresh kill. Hungry for any information; they had attempted to get something out of Mycroft when he appeared on the scene, but his bodyguards were quick to make sure they kept their distance. Lestrade felt he almost had a right to know why he and his men were forced to sit and twiddle their thumbs, being... ah, "friends" with the Holmes's younger brother. Mycroft just patted him on the shoulder and said, "In due time," before making his way inside. Bloody, smug bastard.

Four guards and three Scotland Yard officers lingered outside the door to where their captive was being held with all those precious jewels. Mycroft flashed his ID and badge, but it wasn't really necessary. They recognized him. Went stiff and stepped back and saluted, all stone-faced and serious, though only a moment ago they had been shooting the shit and calling this entire waiting game a bunch of bollocks. After Mycroft served them a few more orders - no interruptions at any cost; two knocks at the door and that was their cue to enter and arrest the thief - before one guard opened the door and gestured inside. Almost in a mocking "this way, your Highness", to which Mycroft smiled and entered with the same esteem and pride as royalty. The guard sneered behind his back.

Mycroft's footfalls were heavy on the tile. A series of _claks_ as he turned from the closing, locked door and faced the world's first and foremost dangerous criminal mastermind.

Who was entirely naked except for the crown jewels and matching cape. At the least the cape was covering most of him, showing only slivers of skin. Chest, thigh, a calf. Just enough to send the hairs on the back of Mycroft's neck standing to attention. Among other things.

"No rush," Jim said and smiled deviously. The light above him cast an eerie glow across his body, stretched shadows along his face. Complimented his creepy demeanor. "Since you took your time, I decided to get more comfortable." He stretched out long, unshaven legs and yawned. "Was debating a cat nap."

"My apologies for my tardiness," Mycroft replied, sounding, for all intents and purposes, genuinely sincere. He smiled warmly. "You caught me in the middle of some very sensitive and delicate negotiations."

Jim's face lit up, mouth forming a small 'o'. "How thoughtful of you!" he said gingerly. "That you would drop your big, important government conspiracy plans to handle li'l ole me."

Mycroft chuckled. "You have a way with me, what can I say?" He shrugged, just slightly. Mycroft casually strolled toward the throned man, hands pressed together. "You're putting quite a strain on the temperaments of the boys outside. You should show them some courtesy as I have shown you."

"Fah," Jim snorted and rolled his eyes. He sat back and flicked a hand at the door. "This is the most action they see outside of rebellious teens vandalizing public property and dunderheaded, would-be thieves. If anything, they should be thankful I'm keeping them on their toes." His eyebrows climbed as did the corners of his grin. "I imagine we won't take very long, will we? So they need not worry for... Oh, maybe, fifteen, twenty more minutes?"

"Sounds reasonable," Mycroft retorted. He was only a few steps away from Moriarty. Could feel the heat he was radiating like some blasted sun. That and the raging excitement coupled with very perverse hormones. Mycroft couldn't blame him; if Jim was half as smart as the man Mycroft believed he was, he'd notice he was equally... intrigued. So terrible, Mycroft knew, but Hell, what the public didn't know (and especially Sherlock), didn't hurt them... He applied this policy to most of his work, after all. "A little... constricting, but reasonable enough."

"Speaking of constricting..." Jim stuck out his foot, his toes brushing just over the bulge in Mycroft's pants. To anyone else, Mycroft would appear unaffected, but Jim could see, oh, how he could see that tension ripple. He sat forward, the cape parting, but not enough. Jim raised the scepter in his hand and pressed its priceless edge beneath Mycroft's chin. Mycroft kept his eyes on the smaller man as his chin was lifted with the rod. "I give you ten." He eyed the taller man. "Perhaps twelve, if you've been keeping in shape."

Mycroft snickered. He placed a hand on the scepter, lowered it a few inches. "Do try to keep up."

Jim sat back against the throne. Shrugged the robe down to hang at his elbows. It parted, exposing his nude form. All ready half-mast. Mycroft chuckled and so did Jim. "Right." He inhaled, tone professional, as he tugged off his tie. A moment later, he was slammed between Jim's legs, pinning the smaller man against the plush throne, devouring his mouth with a bruisingly hard kiss. Jim smiled all teeth against those smashing lips, chuckled, before sinking manicured nails like claws into Mycroft's suit. Clinging, furiously growling as his tongue plunged against Mycroft's, pushed inside his mouth and tasted something forbidden. Only the best.

The soft material of the cape brushed against his tight skin as Mycroft's hands stroked, up and down along Jim's frame. Moving across heaving hips, down to rub between naked thighs. Jim held onto him, rolled against those hands. Their lips tore away only briefly, swallowing hot, moist air, before locking into another desperate kiss. It felt like their last; every kiss did. They knew any other chance meeting may be the last, so they took everything and left nothing behind. Jim bit hard into Mycroft's bottom lip, sucked and nibbled, determined to draw blood. Mycroft raised a hand, cupped the back of Jim's head; his fingers curled into short, black hair, pushed up the edge of the crown as it tilted. He felt it bump against the top of his head, ignored it; after all, he pretty much wore a figurative crown at all times.

Jim's pleased groan meant he'd finally gotten blood. Sucked and drew back, a small trail of it dotting his bottom lip. Mycroft's tongue lashed against the small wound; he felt no pain. He dipped his head forward again, tasted the copper-salt of his own blood on the smaller man's lips. Let his tongue lick away a small trace on pearly teeth. Jim purred and took Mycroft's tongue in his teeth, grazing it as Mycroft pulled back. A thin thread of saliva connected them, broke and hung limp along Mycroft's chin. Jim sat forward, his tongue wiping the streak away, top to bottom, very, very slowly. Mycroft's eyes screwed shut and now his pants were much too tight.

Jim knew this. Of course he would. Two fingers slipped beneath Mycroft's belt, tugged idly. Mycroft's hands quickly went to removing the leather strap, practically whipping it off. Jim sniggered as he hungrily forced down Mycroft's pants and undergarments. Mycroft took his face in his hands, squeezed and kissed him again, heavy and messy. "Right back pocket," he murmured against the man's lips as one hand wandered and searched.

"You came prepared. Good boy."

"And you didn't?"

Jim sneered. "Touché." He lashed tongue against Mycroft's mouth, flicked against the tip of his nose. Mycroft groaned as a hand slipped into his back pocket, squeezed a cheek tightly. He stiffened before the hand let go, and Jim bit at the cap on the small tube. Opened it with his teeth with a small _pop_ before shaking it in Mycroft's face between two fingers. "Who shall do the honors?"

"I have a reputation of being lazy."

"Yes, but I'm wearing the crown here," Jim said, pushing aforementioned crown upright. He bat his eyelashes. "King trumps knave."

"A knave, am I? I think Queen is a more suitable position for you, _your Majesty_."

Jim laughed. "How disobedient, that tongue of yours. I should punish you for your naughty behavior." Fingers slipped into Mycroft's well-kept hair, clutched locks and scratched scalp. "Off with your head," he whispered before shoving the tube in Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft stood back. "So stubborn, you royalty." Nonetheless, he slipped back. Squeezed a dollop of the clear, warming liquid in his palm. "We must be careful, however," he said, even though he was thrusting his hand carelessly beneath Moriarty. Two fingers instantly finding his entrance and pushing inside with little consideration. Jim choked down a small gasp, sat upright as his back arched just slightly. "We don't want to make your mess even bigger than it all ready is."

"Don't sp-spoil the mood with pol-politics," Jim stuttered. He threw his arms over Mycroft's shoulders. Those fingers crooked, pulled, scissored him open. God, it felt both good and oh so terrible. A growing heat was swelling inside him. He pushed down and up, fucking himself on those fingers, demanding more than they could give. Mycroft watched with a smug but relaxed smile, digits yanking and spreading. Turning this man inside out and fingers dug into the fabric of his freshly pressed jacket.

Mycroft finally pulled his fingers free, hand moving away. Jim took a deep breath, lounged in the throne with a small shiver. Uncaring of the mess he was making. His lidded eyes met Mycroft's, who was quickly applying a condom and coat of lube. "You're so sweet," Jim croaked. He lifted a hand and tapped two fingers to the man's cheek. "I thought you'd be worse, but... Sherlock's really the big meanie here."

"You've yet to get on my bad side," Mycroft assured. "So far, you've only proven yourself amusing."

"That's a bare-faced lie if I've ever heard one."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted. "Is it?"

Jim frowned. For a moment, he was trapped, considering Holmes's words. Only until Mycroft took his hips, squeezed and moved back between his legs. Positioned himself and, soon-- Jim gasped out, back curling. A small push and then a thrust, and Mycroft was in to the hilt. He took a moment to adjust, breathe before pull out, push back in. A steady rhythm that would slowly work its way up. Jim had thrown his arms back around his shoulders. His knees locked against the taller man's hips as they undulated back and forth.

Mycroft idly pulled his shirt up. Let Jim's hard cock rub against his belly. Jim tossed his head back, the crown tipping again. The cape had fallen, splayed out on the armrests. Mycroft thrust again, and the scepter hit the ground with a loud clatter. Neither could give a fuck about the priceless heirloom breaking or not. Jim's legs threw open and up, encircling Mycroft tightly.

Mycroft released Jim's waist, smoothing up his torso. It bounced and shivered beneath his touch, until palms worked hard circles over erect nipples. Jim bit the corner of his lip, breathing hastily through his nostrils. Eyes shut so tight he could see a galaxy of billions of bright white stars. Mycroft thumbed the nipples before pinching, even twisting one, and despite the small cry and jerk, Jim was quite appreciative. His chest heaving to grind against those taunting hands.

Mycroft's legs were starting to weaken. He was commonly used to spending most of the day sitting. It was so much more comfortable. With a low growl, he pulled himself free, and Jim almost looked alarmed. Fingers digging into the smaller man's hips, he was yanked from the throne, nearly lifted and Jim grunted as positions changed. Suddenly Mycroft was sitting in the throne, Jim sliding to a sit along his leg. Lifted a second time and slammed back down, filled again and Jim gasped; his head flew back, the crown slipping. Mycroft caught it, and only half-aware of his actions, shoved it on his own head with a curt grin.

Mycroft's hands helped to move Jim along, but the man caught on soon enough. Knees against the seat on each side of Mycroft, the two barely fitting, he bounced up and down. Riding Mycroft, pausing to roll his hips and send Holmes moaning deep from the pit of his throat. Mycroft's hands scrambled at Jim's tousled hair, took hold and yanked him down. Kissed him hard and heavy as before, foreheads bumping and noses awkwardly pushing and hitting. Didn't matter; Jim was clawing at his shirt, ripping away a button, fucking himself earnestly on Mycroft's cock. His own dick grinding against the man's belly.

Not for very long, however. The kiss broke suddenly as Moriarty hissed and jerked his head back; Mycroft took hold of his cock tightly and began pumping it, matching the pace of the hardness working his insides. Mycroft pushed his face forward, wanting more; kissing Jim until he finally leaned back and returned with full attention. Sloppy and messy, more suitable for hot and horny teenagers. However, nothing about this was mature, nor made an ounce of sense. Only the best.

Mycroft bucked his hips and Jim rode with the movement. Clenched teeth together as he dropped his head back again, eyes rolling heaven-bound. The stretched expanse of his pale throat, the Adam's apple bobbing against tight flesh, it was nearly succulent. Mycroft licked and sucked at the nook between shoulder and neck, tasting sweat, fresh soap and just a dabble of cologne. Quite intoxicating, his head was spinning and he couldn't help but bite down. Not hard, but enough to send Jim reeling and forcing his hands beneath Mycroft's clothes, up his back, tearing nails and beat red marks along his flesh. Welts that would last days, a few pin drops of blood smeared against the abused skin.

It was Mycroft who finished first. His body suddenly went stiff and Jim bit down into his lip, waited. Mycroft came with a low grunt and quiver before falling boneless into the throne. Jim giggled, sweat glistening on his face. "Such an old man," he jeered, one shaky hand plucking the crown from Mycroft's head. Let it drop to the floor as he resumed riding. He followed suit a few minutes later, pushing down hard and rocking until finally his body could no longer hold out. Mycroft was prepared, however; a few seconds before Jim climaxed, he sluggishly removed a handkerchief with his initials stitched in one corner, wrapped it around Jim's dick and held it. A tremor thrashed down Jim's spine and he watched the napkin turn damp with his come.

They each took a moment to collect themselves. Remembered how to breathe evenly. Jim licked his cracked lips, swallowed down his dry throat. A smile returned and he sat forward, Mycroft's flaccid dick still inside him. "Now, love, how was that?" he whispered hot air against the man's ear. A thumb wiped sweat from Mycroft's brow. "So much nicer than bending me over some boring hotel bed and fucking me senseless, don't you agree?"

"I don't know," Mycroft rasped a moment later. Fingers tracing Jim's hip bones. "You were louder that time."

Jim giggled. He grimaced as he pulled himself free, off Mycroft's lap. Swayed once, twice, before gathering his balance when he stood. He tapped a fist lightly against the small of his back. The ache would wear off soon enough, turn numb with heat. Mycroft drew to his feet and removed the condom.

Jim spotted the soiled handkerchief on the throne. He picked it up and gave the initials a small kiss, the smell of his own come filling his nostrils instantly. He looked over it, at Mycroft before handing him back the napkin. "Keep it," he purred, "as a reminder of me."

"Ah, I would let you have it, but - Well, you know." He took the handkerchief and put it in his back pocket. He was going to make a beeline back to his place as soon as he finished here. His men would make sure no one stopped him, or asked questions. They certainly wouldn't.

Mycroft finished dressing first, looked and appeared prim and proper as if he hadn't just fucked a psychopathic criminal genius in a royal throne. Not a single hair out of place, none at all. Jim pulled his boring t-shirt on over his head, zipped up his fly. "I guess there's no chance I can leave here wearing those?" He nodded to the jewels and artifacts, scattered on the floor and throne with haphazard care. "At least the crown." He made a pleading yet disappointed face. "It would make such an impression on the press!"

Mycroft reached out a hand. "Afraid not, poppet." He pulled up the collar of Jim's shirt, hiding the fresh hickey. "No crown can hide the fact you look like a dirty tourist."

Jim laughed. He scooped up his hat, put it on half-backwards. "Master of disguise, you know."

Mycroft tugged at his jacket's lapels. "You're not the only one, my dear," he crooned.

END


End file.
